THE PEN
THE PEN
by Constantino Kouyialis
It was just a pen. A simple roll-point, black ink, decent grip—nothing special. The kind of pen you lose and forget about five minutes later, the sort you mindlessly click while waiting for a delayed flight or a late lover. I wouldn’t have given it a second thought if not for those twelve little letters along its side: Benaki Museum.
Something about those words made it significant. Maybe it spoke to some inner intellectual kink of mine, a quiet nod to the cultured and well-traveled. I had just come from a retrospective of Ghikas, after all. Maybe it was a narcissistic impulse—the need to flash something ever so slightly obscure yet recognizable, signaling a sort of refined taste. Oh, here’s someone who knows things. Reads things.
It wasn’t a cheap Bic someone hands you at a conference. No, this was a Benaki Museum pen. It suggested that I had stood in front of canvases, tilted my head at brushstrokes, and murmured something vaguely profound about form and composition.
And then, of course, I lost it. Because I lose everything. Pens, planes, train tickets, entire days. Maybe I left it at a café, maybe it fell from my pocket while I was reaching for a crumpled receipt. Maybe someone picked it up and thought, Benaki Museum? Huh. Who knows. I should’ve known better—it wasn’t the first time.
Years ago, I had been gifted the mother lode—an entire stash of pens belonging to my ex-girlfriend’s late grandfather. Gold-plated fountain pens, silver ones, all with weight and history. He must have been the kind of man who valued permanence, weight, the tactile sensation of signing his name with something heavy and metallic.
I don’t even know how many I’ve lost since. Each time, the same dull pang of disappointment—not just at the loss itself, but at the ridiculousness of my own attachment. To an object. To an idea.
The Benaki pen was no different. When I lost it, I felt that same little ache, a sense of unfairness, as if I had been betrayed by fate, by the gods of pens. And then, just when I’d made my peace with it, I found the Benaki pen again. Tucked into the pocket of an old jacket. There was a small moment of joy, an absurd sense of victory, like I had defied the gods of misplacement. Back to doodling, back to carrying it around, keeping it close.
But something strange happened. The more I used it, the more those twelve little letters—the entire reason for its supposed importance—began to wear off. Benaki Museum became Benaki Mus, became Benaki, became nothing. I watched it happen. The whole reason I cared about this thing in the first place was disappearing, letter by letter. And with it, the fear of losing it again disappeared too.
The same pen, the same function. And yet, it had lost its power over me. Because that power had never been real to begin with—I had assigned it. All meaning is assigned, all objects imbued with whatever weight we decide they should carry. The Benaki pen had been a badge, a totem, a small tether to a quiet sophistication. But that had only ever existed in my head. A museum pen was never a museum pen. It was just a pen.
And once the letters disappeared, so did the myth.
And just like that, I was free to lose it again.
